


Lionhearted

by arcadenemesis



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (Minor only), Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, First Kiss, Getting Together, Goddess Tower, Love Confessions, M/M, Male My Unit | Byleth, Mutual Pining, POV Second Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 05:44:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20187247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadenemesis/pseuds/arcadenemesis
Summary: You came close once years ago—before the war, before he tore his way back into the world with bright hair and bright eyes—the first time you saw him smile. Such a sweet and easy thing, though it had never danced on his lips in your presence before. A stream of sunlight cutting through a break in the storm clouds overhead. And it had just been for you.Mesmerising, you had called it, before you had remembered yourself. But you were young then, and a little untethered, despite the shadow of the past looming over you.A year after Byleth teaches Dimitri to follow his heart, he's still learning how to apply that lesson to all aspects of his life.





	Lionhearted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [v_0_3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_0_3/gifts).

It's gradual, the way you fall. Something honed by days together, apart, reunited again. But you've guarded your heart for so long, and it takes time—years, even—to embrace how you truly feel.

His heart has a history of protection too, you think. You've seen him chewed up by life and it's endless hunger for suffering. Been by his side when his father died, weathered the way it reopened your old wounds. Endured the weight of losing him, once for barely a moment, twice to a void of five years you'd rather forget. But you've watched him triumph too. Witnessed him stand after every blow. Seen him wipe the blood from his lip and strike once more. Perhaps, in a way, it was the only thing that kept your last thread from fraying entirely when you were almost lost. 

You've told him time and time again just how vital he is to you, how his extended hand in the darkness—steady no matter how many times you slapped it away—was the only thing that pulled you from the depths of your demons. Expressed over and over how lost you would have been without him, how cruel and bitter and crooked you could have so easily become without his guidance. But he just smiles and assures you it was the least he could do, and you think maybe you fall short of expressing the magnitude of your eternal reverence. 

Perhaps it's that others are just better at wearing their heart on their sleeve. You're not as bold as Sylvain, not as sweet as Mercedes, not as sharp as Felix or honest as Dedue. You lack Ashe and Annette's endearing earnestness, or Ingrid's fortitude. You have all these things—you must as King of Faerghus—just not in the right measures to tell him how you feel.

You came close once years ago—before the war, before he tore his way back into the world with bright hair and bright eyes—the first time you saw him smile. Such a sweet and easy thing, though it had never danced on his lips in your presence before. A stream of sunlight cutting through a break in the storm clouds overhead. And it had just been for you. _ Mesmerising_, you had called it, before you had remembered yourself. But you were young then, and a little untethered, despite the shadow of the past looming over you. Age and acceptance have offered you freedoms, but not in this. Not to follow your heart down such a selfish path that will, in all likelihood, lead nowhere.

He cares deeply for you, you know that. But he cares deeply for _ all _ who fought this war beside you. Maybe time had been a teacher for him, managing to chip away at his guarded heart. You, on the other hand, still hold a feeble rusted shield close to yours. Sometimes you can trick yourself into thinking that maybe there's something more there when he still wears the brooch you gave him for his birthday, when his eyes go kind listening to you talk, when his cheeks colour in the rare moments where you manage to make him laugh. 

It's the anniversary of the end of the war, and while the road is far from over, it's a time to come together again and celebrate. You offer your palace, your food, your wine for the occasion, to make up for the fact that you're much too busy to travel. The morning you find the seal of the monastery by your plate, you almost send your breakfast flying in your haste to open it.

_ A year already_, it reads in his elegant cursive. _ It's been too long since I've visited the capital. I look forward to seeing you all again. I've missed your company. _

You remember, once, he joked to you that he didn't have a heartbeat—a bizarre jest, to be sure—but in this moment, you think you know how that feels. You swear your heart only starts beating again weeks later when you see him ride up through the King's road toward the castle. You saddle your own horse to ride out to meet him and he greets you with that smile you hold so dear. But that moment is fleeting. The Archbishop is well-loved, a hero of the Kingdom, and he devotes himself wholeheartedly to the people of Fódlan. The moment you both walk through the gates, your subjects crowd you both, and duty whisks you apart again.

You next see him after dinner is served, when you escape the banquet room for a moment of peace. He is much the same in that respect, and you find him standing alone looking out over the expanse of the moonlit kingdom.

"Professor—" 

The title comes without thought, and even as he turns at your voice, you quickly amend.

"My apologies, Your Holiness—"

But he cuts you off there, a tease in his voice. "Oh? And am I now to refer to you as Your Majesty in kind?"

You hope the cool northern air does its job to quell the flames in your cheeks. "Of course not," you assure as you come to stand beside him. "I would never want you to call me by anything other than my name."

Those eyes soften with such kindness again, brighter than all the stars in the sky above them. "Then I would ask that you call me by mine, Dimitri," he says. "I think we've been through more than enough for that."

It makes you feel warm to your core, but then again, he always has. Maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the sentiment of the evening, but you lay down that shield before your heart, for just an instant, giving words to a reply you've wanted to write for weeks now.

"...I've missed you too, Byleth."

* * *

The Ethereal Moon brings about the annual celebrations of the establishment of Garreg Mach. You can't bring yourself to say no to the invitation that arrives from the Archbishop himself, clearing your calendar so you make the trip a few days early to arrive on the day of your birthday. It seems he does the same to receive you, pulling you into an embrace that you perhaps indulge in a moment longer than is proper. Your brooch is proudly fastened by his heart, you note with joy. He shows you to your quarters himself, where he produces a wrapped gift, insisting you open it later when you protest the kindness. At his urging, you follow as he takes you through the monastery to show you the fruit of all the hard work of the monks and knights to restore the grounds to their former glory, before Edelgard sacked Garreg Mach with her Imperial Army. 

"Byleth, please," you laugh, grabbing his hand without thought as he tries to dart off to the next place, so eager and carefree and so, so lovely. "Slow down. You are like a child, running from one place to the next."

Byleth smiles that mesmerising little smile, and glances down to your joined hands. But before you can recover from your burst of embarrassment and pull away, his grip holds you firm, and he turns to tug you along at his exuberant pace. 

He lets go when you find yourself climbing a familiar set of stairs. Ones you climbed on your own in those days when you kept company only in ghosts, full of hate and anger and regret. It's still hard to face that past, but with him before you, you find strength to take each step. At the centre of the top floor, he waits while you take the slow journey to the far wall, where you had made a stand for days against the bandits who came with nothing more than the clothes on your back and the lance in your iron grip.

"I still remember that day so well," you say softly. "I thought you were just another relic of my past failings, coming to haunt me."

The stone underfoot has been long scrubbed of the blood you spilled here, but it still feels as cold as you recall when you press your hand to the wall. 

"And when you spoke... for the first time in five years I actually _ felt _ my humanity stir within me. I know I was so cold, so bloodthirsty back then, but that moment felt like slowly waking up from a nightmare. I shudder to think of what would have become of me without you beside me. What monster I would have grown in to without your patience and kindness. Even now, I struggle to fathom just why you didn't simply declare me a lost cause."

The words are spilling from you without filter, you know. You turn to face him, because he deserves that at least. 

"I still don't know how to express just how much you mean to me. Byleth, I—"

He crosses the floor in three strides, before you can form the words. Smaller though he is, he's lithe and deceptively strong—a mercenary long before he was a teacher or leader of the church. It's nothing for him to catch you off-guard and pin you against the wall at your back. It's everything when he tilts his chin up to capture your lips with his. 

In spite of the rush, his hands hold so tenderly at your ribs and the side of your neck, and it's enough to make you gasp into the kiss. Byleth's eyes open at that, and for the first time, you see him misunderstand with a tiny frown. It's chillingly cold when he stumbles back, eyes cast away and colour flooding his cheeks. He's never been one for too many words, but he's always had nerves of steel. Both abandon him now, and he takes another stilting step back as you push off the wall.

"Byleth…"

It comes as barely a breath, but he flinches anyway. It stuns you. You don't think you've ever seen him look so unsure, so humiliated. The bell for the end of the monastery's daily activities interrupts before you can find your voice.

"I must go," he murmurs, cloak billowing behind him as he turns to hurry down the stairs before you can recover your wits. You don't see him at dinner, and it's only after you return to your room that you remember his gift. Uncertain, you carefully unfold the paper, and your breath catches when you open the wooden box revealed beneath.

On a bed of velvet, ornate and unexpected, rests a silver dagger, words cut carefully into the underside of the box's lid.

_ To help you carve your path. _

* * *

He seems suddenly busy in the days that follow. You know it's to be expected—he is the Archbishop after all—but as your friends and allies arrive for the festivities too, you can't help but feel he's avoiding you. At night, the phantom feeling of warmth against your lips and hands holding yours drives you mad. You lose hours staring into the ceiling above your bed, turning the dagger over in your hands, until you give up on the notion of sleep and move to the writing desk in the corner of your room. Picking up a quill, you put to ink all the words you lack courage to say. 

It's absurd to wander the halls this late. You can only imagine the whispers if anyone saw the King of Faerghus strolling the monastery at midnight. But you have a purpose, a destination, and once you slip the letter under the doorway, you immediately return to your room to wait out dawn there. 

When the anniversary of the monastery arrives, you don't linger long at the festivities, slipping out after dinner while those gathered dance and mingle. But your departure isn't without purpose. Your feet take you to the Goddess Tower, whose rumours you had met with silent scorn when you were younger. But now, you have a wish. One you desire with all your heart. You can only have faith it's not one you wish for alone. 

As the minutes tick by, you begin to second guess. The choice to come is ridiculous really; the folly of students and romantics, not of kings. But as you resign to your foolish fate, turn away from the window to leave, there's a soft sound behind you and… there he is.

After your moment of shock passes, you feel your lips pull into an uncontrollable smile, and he responds in kind. He's the first to move, but you're the one to take his hands when he stops to stand before you, affirming to you that he truly is here, not a figment of your imagination.

"I didn't think you'd come," you say, a soft, disbelieving laugh bubbling out of your chest. He squeezes your fingers gently, shy in a way that delights you. 

"I thought maybe I had misjudged," he admits quietly. "But by now, I would hope you know I could never refuse you."

It's true, you realise. Through all your years together, he has never once made you anything less than priority. Never once put self ahead of others, including you. You want to offer him the same in return. 

This time, it's you who leans in first, but there's no hesitation in the way he reaches up to meet you. Contrary to your first kiss, he surrenders control, leans into you as you tuck his hair behind his ear and cradle the back of his head. It's sweet and unhurried and, for now, secret. A truth only the two of you know. You build the courage to speak it aloud until the two of you finally part.

"I know I… struggle to express myself in these matters but…" 

You swallow, meeting bright, patient eyes. He beats you to the punch.

"I love you, Dimitri," he says, and he positively _ beams _with it. It's startling and scatters your wits. 

"I… That… You were supposed to let me say it first!" you cry, indignant. 

And he laughs, a sound that lights his whole face in mirth, and you quickly forget your minor grievance. You pull him flush to you by the waist, pressing your forehead to his, and the words come a little easier.

"Byleth, I love you," you tell him softly. "I have loved you for years, and if you let me, my wish is to love you for many more to come, in this life and the next."

Colour floods his cheeks at that, and you can't help but hold him a little tighter.  
"That is my wish too," he whispers, as if the words are only for you to hear. He clears his throat, then shifts to reach into his pocket, hand closed over something when it emerges. "Before my father died, he told me I should give this to the person I decide to spend my life with."

You look down as he holds the pale ring between you, violet stones adorning its centre.

"It was my mother's," he says, and your heart beats double time. "You don't have to take it if—"

You silence him with a hand to his cheek.   
"I accept," you tell him in no uncertain terms. "It's far beyond anything I deserve. But nothing would make me happier."

He lets out a shaky breath of relief, easing the glove from your left hand and sliding the ring to rest snug against the knuckle on your fourth finger.

"You deserve so much more than you believe, Dimitri," he says to you as he stretches up to kiss you again. "I'll show you the love that you deserve."

It's impossible not to believe every word he says. He's never lied to you before.

Your duties will make it hard, you know. The Church and the Kingdom will mean time apart in your lives. That there will be times where distance makes you ache, and you will have to work to carve out time for _ this_. But if there's one thing he's taught you, it's that some things are worth fighting for. 

Following your heart is by far the greatest. 

**Author's Note:**

> For [V_0_3](https://twitter.com/v_0_3), whose comment about the lack of M!Byleth/Dimitri fics finally spurred me into action. I'm sure this isn't going to be a perfect solution, but hopefully it inspires a little more activity in this pairing.
> 
> Also, I told my girlfriend I wouldn't write Fire Emblem fan fiction after she teased me when I finished the game, so Laura, if you're reading this, it's a mirage. 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/copilotsheith/status/1160111841583882241?s=19) to yell at me about the Blue Lions route!


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